


Heaven on Earth

by keerawa



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Crueltide, Gen, Horror, Nazis, Season/Series 02, Yuletide, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-08-23 13:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16619672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/pseuds/keerawa
Summary: Joe always had that killer instinct.





	Heaven on Earth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Larrant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larrant/gifts).



> Warnings for canon-typical Nazi ideology, violence, gore, self-harm, and misogyny, with mentions of illness, murder, and other dark themes.
> 
> Many thanks to my betas, Isiscolo and Morbane.

“You got that radio working, huh?” Joe asked.

The Negro captain turned around. “You’re a goddamned Nazi.”

“Yeah,” Joe said, mind working frantically, trying to find a way out. There was another sailor coming up behind him. Joe turned to run. The captain was pointing a gun at him, but if he could just reach —

There was a loud bang, and everything went dark.

 

* * *

 

 

The sun was blazing overhead, shining directly into his eyes. Ocean waves lapped softly against the hull. His tongue felt thick, and there was a rich, metallic taste in his mouth, but he didn’t feel hung-over. He felt good. In fact, he felt great. Joe sat up, and then hurled himself to his feet, squinting against the sunlight and ready to defend himself.

The ship was empty. There was nothing left of her crew but blood — it was puddled on the deck, splashed and smeared along the gunwales. Pirates, maybe?  Joe checked — he still had the film. He hauled up buckets of sea water to wash the deck, scrubbing his own face and hands clean in the process. It was easy enough to figure out the settings on the radio, even though they were written in Japanese.

The air crew that picked Joe up saluted him crisply, photographed every inch of the boat, debriefed him, and never once looked him in the eye.

 

* * *

 

 

“Joe,” Obergruppenführer Smith greeted him. “Congratulations.” He paused, looking at Joe inquiringly. “Is there something wrong?”

Everything was wrong, from the color of the sunlight to the smell of the city: car exhaust, rancid trash, and people, thousands and thousands of them all around him. “Sir, I don’t understand. What happened to the men on the ship?”

Smith smiled. “Why, _you_ happened to them.”

Joe sank unsteadily into the nearest office chair.

Smith settled gracefully into the chair across the coffee table from him and began pouring coffee. “They were criminals, Joe. Criminals who wanted you dead. You should feel no remorse, and if you do, it will soon pass.”

“I don’t — I don’t remember what happened. What I did,” Joe said, prodding at that stubborn blank space in his memory.

“That’s not unusual,” Smith said, dropping a sugar cube into Joe’s coffee cup and handing it to him. “Your father will be very proud of you.”

“He doesn’t even know I work for you,” Joe protested, taking a swig of coffee. He grimaced at the taste, far too sweet, even though he always took his coffee with sugar.

“Did you really believe that?” Smith picked up a flask from the table and neatly, meticulously tipped a measure of some dark, viscous liquid into his own coffee cup. “You thought I singled you out you for further training, out of all the recruits in the American Reich, because you were special?” The idea seemed to amuse him.  “Well, that’s certainly true, if not the entire truth. I stuck with you because I always believed that when the situation demanded it, you’d unleash your true potential. And now you have.”

Joe’s mouth was watering at the savory scent wafting from Smith’s coffee. He found himself standing up, his own coffee cup dropping slowly towards the floor. Without thinking, he snatched it out of the air, the hot coffee slopping over his hand. It didn’t hurt. “This … isn't the man I want to be,” he said, staring down at his hand that showed no sign of a burn, at the cuff of his jacket where the new coffee stain obscured the bloodstains from the ship. Abruptly he came to a decision. “I want to resign.” 

Smith chuckled. “It’s a bit late for that, Joe. I’d hate for you to have another of those black-outs while you were on a construction site, or perhaps staying over-night with that lovely young woman and her boy – Buddy? Is that his name?”

Smith sat back in his chair and took a sip of his coffee. His eyelids fluttered with pleasure as he licked his lips. “Mmm. Oh, I’m sorry, Joe. Would you care for some?” He picked up the flask and unscrewed the lid, gesturing towards Joe’s cup.

Joe, biting his lip, shook his head no.

“Next time, then,” Smith said, eyes crinkling with amusement as he returned the flask to his jacket pocket. “Your father, Reichsminister Heusmann, is waiting for you in Berlin. Your flight leaves in …” he checked his watch, “just under an hour. Major Klemm will show you to your car.”  He took one more gulp of his coffee, set it down on the table, and then leapt to his feet, more like a prowling cat than anything human.

Joe recoiled automatically, his back against the door before he even realized he had moved.

Smith showed his teeth.“Sieg Heil, Joe.”

“Sieg Heil,” Joe replied automatically as he saluted, then groped for the door handle behind him, unwilling to turn his back on the man—man?—who’d been the closest thing he’d ever had to a father.

Obergruppenführer Smith watched him leave with the perfect stillness of a hunter watching his prey.

 

* * *

 

 

“Welcome, Josef,” Reichsminister Heusmann greeted him as Joe entered the enormous glass-walled office overlooking the heart of the German Reich. “I am so pleased to finally meet you face-to-face.”

Joe felt filthy in contrast to the beautiful surroundings; no one had let him change on the plane, and he was still wearing the same dirty, blood-stained clothes.  Joe forced himself to hold still as Heusmann approached, grabbed him by the chin, and turned his face first to the right, and then the left, inspecting him.  His body thrummed with more than the dull resentment and anger he’d felt towards this man his entire life. This was a bone-deep, clawing need to fight, to lash out. He’d already felt it several times in the two days since he’d woken up on the ship. The violent urges had felt alien at first, but were already growing familiar; Joe concentrated on swallowing down both the impulse and the feelings behind it.

The Reichsminister gave a satisfied nod and returned to the far side of the room, looking out over the view. “Magnificent. You are all I had hoped and more.”

He showed off his model of the enormous dam the Reich was building across the Mediterranean. Joe’s pulse gradually slowed back down to normal.

“But I am certain you have questions about more than the Reich’s hydroelectric technology,” Heusmann concluded. “You need the truth. Ask me anything, Josef. I will answer.”

Joe had been waiting for this moment for years, had prepared a litany of questions and demands he’d rehearsed for the day he finally met the father who had abandoned him and his mother. But when he opened his mouth he found himself asking, “What am I?”

“Ah.” For a moment, as he glanced away from Joe towards the Nazi eagle above the window, he seemed almost sad. The moment passed. “There are several terms used to describe us, but I believe that the simplest and most accurate is ‘Übermensch.’

“Over-man?” Joe translated.

Heusmann tilted his head. “It is more poetic in German, I think.”  He gestured to a photo on the wall, of Adolph Hitler pinning a medal on his chest. “Our beloved Führer,” he said quietly. “There have been dozens of assassination attempts against him. The official story is that all were foiled, but that is not the case. Over the years, he has been shot, poisoned, and bombed. Each time, he emerged unscathed. At first he thought it mere Providence. But then, as the war grew more desperate, he took note of rumors of others, a handful of the greatest soldiers of the Reich who were believed killed in action but then reappeared on the battlefield, not merely unharmed, but transformed. Faster, stronger, more deadly, and vastly more intelligent. All our imperfections burnt away in the crucible of violent death in combat. He put us in charge, first of his armies, then the laboratories, and finally the government itself. The impossible is, for us, routine. The Heisenberg device was, after all, no more than an application of existing scientific principles. Whatever career you choose to pursue, whatever gifts you develop, you will excel beyond the imagination of mere mortals.”

Heusmann’s voice dropped to a harsh, strident whisper. “Don’t you see?  We are _gods_ , Josef. We will remake this world in our image, a heaven on earth. Transforming the Sahara into a garden is just the beginning.”

“And can gods be killed?” Joe asked, his whole body clenched tight around the sick feeling in his gut.

That startled a laugh from Heusmann. “That is your first reaction?” He searched Joe’s face. “If so, no one has managed it yet. Who knows — perhaps you will be the first. Oh, John was right,” he murmured, half to himself. “You do have the killer instinct.”

There was a knock at the door. They both ignored the sound. A major opened it. “My apologies, Reichsminister,” he said. “I know you had left instructions not to be disturbed, but the matter is urgent.”

Heusman’s attention snapped towards the intruder.  He stalked across the office towards him, slowly, purposefully. If his feet made any noise on the thick piled carpet, the sound was lost under the distractingly loud sound of the major’s pounding heart. The Reichsminister came to a stop a few feet from the major, who was holding onto the doorframe with a white-knuckled grip. Heusmann swallowed, gave a full-body shudder, and rearranged his face into a pleasant smile.

“Of course,” Heusmann said lightly. “Where would I be without my keeper?  Josef, I apologize. I had intended to spend the morning with you, but it appears my duties won’t allow me that luxury. However, I have planned a small gathering at my home this evening, in your honor. I hope you will attend?”

Joe could smell the major’s fear from across the room. Fascinated by the sweat dripping down the man’s face, and the way that the small crowd gathered outside had all moved out of sight of the door, he agreed.

“Excellent. I know you left New York in a rush. Major Vogel will take you to visit my tailor, to ensure that you are properly attired. The festivities will begin at sundown.”

Vogel saluted, turned smartly, and marched away. Joe followed him. The three men standing in the outer office scurried out of his way and then entered the Reichsminister’s office.

Was there anyone in Berlin that didn’t stink of fear, Joe wondered irritably. And then, because he was his mother’s son, he decided that, with a whole day to kill shopping for clothes on Heusmann’s dime, he’d see just how high he could run up the tab.

 

* * *

 

 

Major Vogel checked Joe into the up-scale Hotel Adlon. Its exquisite chandeliers, capped bellhops, and velvet upholstery all declared that its guests were the elite. The luxury felt unreal, the long-delayed answer to some childish prayer Joe might have made one, cold, hungry winter day while he and mom scrounged construction sites for penny scrap.

He’d been living off of military rations for days, and the memory of surviving on dog food and weak tea left him ravenous. He ordered a rare, 20-ounce steak from room service and managed to eat half of it before the texture revolted him. Then Joe took a long shower, glorying in the hotel’s endless hot water, scrubbing off thousands of miles of grime and sweat and blood. The heat helped clear his head.

Afterwards, wrapped in a towel, Joe wiped the fog off the mirror. He lathered up the shaving soap — a special soap, just for shaving, crazy — and slathered it onto his cheeks, chin, and upper lip. It had an intense, musky scent that seemed to banish the unpleasant odors of his disappointing dinner and the men that had occupied this room before him. Joe was used to cheap safety razors and their disposable blades. He picked up the pearl-handled straight razor that had been laid out for him on the bathroom counter, scraped it down his cheek, and cut himself.

Joe gasped and grabbed for some tissue paper, even though it didn’t really hurt. He pressed the paper to the wound for a few seconds and then inspected it. There was a tiny dot of blood. Joe checked his cheek in the mirror and couldn’t find the cut.

He met his own eyes in the mirror, and shuddered with the sudden certainty that Joe Blake had been shot and killed on that boat. The thing staring at itself in the mirror had crawled out of Joe’s grave.

Joe held up his left hand and drew the razor across it in one short, deep cut. Blood welled up. He pulled the towel off his waist and wiped away the blood. The skin closed up before his eyes, leaving no sign of a wound. He looked at his hands. The hands that had cared for his mother over the weeks she got weaker and weaker, wracked with coughs, out of her mind with fever, crying and begging her precious ‘Martin’ for medicine that was too precious to be offered to Brooklyn alley rats. The hands that had pushed the pillow down over her face and held it there as she struggled and screamed and beat feebly at him with her scarecrow fists. Held it there until she went limp.

Adolph Hitler. Obergruppenführer Smith. Reichsminister Heusmann. Joe Blake. What if what they had in common wasn’t some Aryan genetic superiority, but something missing, something wrong. What if, when they died, God took one look at their black souls and said no. You don’t deserve to rest. You don’t deserve peace. Your punishment is to go back to the world you’ve ruined and stay there – forever.

His hands ached. Joe looked down to find them clenched into fists around the razor, which had snapped in two.

His mom had always said Joe’s problem was that he thought too much. So he put his questions aside along with the pieces of the bloody razor on that gleaming marble countertop. He washed his hands thoroughly until there was no trace of blood, and put on the uniform Vogel had laid out for him to visit the Reichsminister’s tailor.

 

* * *

 

 

The sun sank below the horizon, silhouetting a manor house that was already ablaze with lights. The car Joe was in passed through a security check-point and motored up the long drive. He was dressed in a suit that had been quickly tailored to fit him; it probably cost more than he had made in a year driving a forklift.

The civilians had stopped smelling of fear once he changed out of the blood-stained clothes. The major, however, was still terrified of him. Vogel had explained, when Joe asked why he hadn’t been allowed a change of clothing before being presented to the Reichsminister, that it was ‘traditional for such heroes of the Fatherland.’

Heroes. Yeah.

As Joe handed off the ridiculously expensive cashmere coat he’d charged to his father’s account and was ushered inside, he became uncomfortably aware that every other guest in the house was a good-looking girl.

“My son Josef, recently returned from the American Reich, where he covered himself in glory,” Heusmann announced loudly, presenting him to the ballroom full of blondes.

A man in uniform offered Joe and his father a tray holding two goblets of red wine. Joe took one. It was oddly thick and viscous, he noted as he took a sip. Saliva flooded his mouth at the rich, coppery taste. Not wine. Nothing like wine. He took a deep gulp — for a moment he was back on the ship, that taste thick on his tongue, wrist-deep in a corpse’s belly, covered in ‘glory’. Joe ignored the sudden clench of hunger in his stomach and returned the half-full goblet to the tray.

“Is it not to your taste?” his father asked, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Joe shook his head no.

“Well, we must find something to satisfy you, or I shall be a failure as a host. Please, take your pick,” Heusmann said, gesturing to the women in the room. They were chatting, drinking, and helping themselves to food from the banquet tables. Clearly they were all aware of Joe and his father, standing in the entrance; even as they turned to speak with one another or take a glass of wine, none of them ever turned their backs on the two of them, not for a moment.

“You want me to … pick one of the girls?” Joe asked.

“Or more than one,” his father said with a shrug. “I have their files in my study, if you have any criteria in mind beyond the obvious.”

Joe looked over the women, trying to keep his cool. Was he just expected to fuck them, or was there something worse, some reaction that was a part of his … condition? Under the clouds of perfume, he could smell that they were afraid. Joe had done plenty of things he wasn’t proud of in his life, but he had never hurt a woman. Never, except – He closed his eyes briefly, thinking of his hands pushing the pillow down over his mother’s face. He’d tried to be a good man. He was still trying. Juliana had seen that, had believed in him. But Joe had no idea what he might be capable of now.

 Heusmann seemed puzzled. “You are familiar with the Lebensborn program, are you not?”

Joe felt a flash of relief. “Yeah. They’re, uh, some kind of high-class cat houses for the top guys in the Reich, right?” If they were all hookers, that wouldn’t be so bad.

Heusmann shook his head. “That is the rumor we spread to cover their true purpose. Your mother never told you?” He raised his eyebrow, held it for a moment, and then gave a tiny shrug. “Well, no matter. The Department of Health and Racial Purity scoured the Greater Reich to find Aryan women who might be capable of bearing Übermensch children. They investigated local legends of revenants, Nachzehrer, nosferatu; peasant superstitions, all of them, but hinting at our true potential.”

Joe had no idea what expression was on his face, but it made his father step closer and lower his voice.

“It will be no hardship, Josef. These women understand that providing you with heirs is their duty, and they know better than to provoke your more aggressive instincts.” 

Joe licked his lips nervously. Aggressive instincts? Was that real, or just some bullshit excuse the most powerful men in the Reich told themselves as they used that power to take whatever, whoever, they wanted?  He imagined Juliana standing naked, hands clasped, eyes down like some submissive Pon fantasy, then looking up, staring him right in the eye, challenging him to see what he’d do next. Would he make love to her, or lose control like some kind of animal?

Heusmann glanced over Joe’s shoulder at a young woman sipping champagne in the far corner. “Our educational programs are far more comprehensive than they were when your mother was recruited to the Lebensborn.”

Joe jerked back as if struck. “My mother was no whore.”

Heusmann’s eyes snapped back to Joe. “Your mother,” Heusmann snarled, lip lifting to show his teeth for a moment, “was a patriot. I was furious when she took you from me, but I see now that she was right. I’ve sired many sons, but you are the first to express your true potential. Berlin has grown too tame, too soft. There is no room for warriors here. No. Obergruppenführer Smith did what I could not. He sent you into the lion’s den, to test your mettle against the criminals of the American Resistance. This is why conflict with the Japanese Empire is inevitable – is essential. Only through war can the Master Race achieve our true destiny!”

Joe was between his father and the girls, his own teeth bared. “They’re scared of us,” he hissed. Their terror was tangible at his back; he could smell it, taste it, feel it on his skin. Joe’s heart was pounding, cock stirring, and he wasn’t sure if it was the prospect of fighting to protect the girls or their fear of him that was doing it.

“Of course they are,” Heusmann snapped, exasperated. “They were chosen for their genetic superiority, not their _idiocy_. Was für ‘ne Scheiße!” he cursed. He spun around, took a few long steps out of the room, hooked one hand under a massive mirror hanging on one side of the hallway, and hurled it against the far wall. The smash of the glass was shockingly loud.

Joe heard two soldiers come running from the front entrance, and then stumble to a halt in the hallway.

Heusmann stared down at the shattered remnants of the mirror. “Clean that up,” he snapped at his men. He took one deep, shuddering breath, then another, before returning to the ballroom. “My apologies, ladies, but it appears we will not be needing your services tonight.” Joe’s skin crawled at Heusmann’s jovial smile, more menacing than his honest rage a moment earlier. “Josef, if you would accompany me?”

A few minutes later they were settled into leather chairs in the study. Heusmann had a brandy snifter in hand. Joe had refused the offered drink.

“So the young women of the Lebensborn are not to your liking,” Heusmann said casually. “My mistake is obvious, in hindsight. A man accustomed to the thrill of the hunt will not be impressed by a cow led to the slaughter. John tells me that you formed an attachment to a woman in the Pacific States Resistance, is this true?”

Joe wanted to lie, to protect her from all of this.  But Smith had known more about Juliana than Joe had thought possible, and whether that was due to his contacts or some strange ability, lying seemed to offer more risk than reward.

Joe nodded. “Juliana Crain. She was …” He trailed off, remembering Juliana lighting up a smoke, leaning against a truck, throwing a guy off a bridge. Handing him that film and putting him on a boat, saving his life when she knew it might get her killed. Juliana was strong, smart, brave, and _good_. Really good, in a way he hadn’t thought existed until he met her.

His father chuckled. “I’m sure she was. Such obsessive behavior may be a sign that you have instinctively sensed her genetic compatibility. It was that way with me, when I first met your mother. John will make every effort to secure her for you. Assuming she is racially pure, the re-education process should not be too lengthy or difficult.”

Joe smiled queasily. He’d seen the Gestapo break men under torture until they would say anything, do anything, to please their captors. The Lebensborn program was probably gentler, but that didn’t make it any less wrong. He realized Heusmann was waiting for a reply. “Thank you, sir.”

“In the meantime, should you find yourself attracted to any woman, it is best if you get her name and forward it to the Department of Health and Racial Purity. They can help you avoid embarrassing incidents such as accidentally impregnating the wife of a senior SS official, or having some foolish woman damaged while attempting to resist you.”

Suddenly, Joe was done. He couldn’t sit there and listen to another word. Meeting Juliana had made him a better man. His father wanted to turn him into a better monster. “I need to get home,” he said, standing up.

“Of course,” his father said. “Your senses may be difficult to adjust to, at first. Take a few days to explore Berlin. You are one of the most valued members of the Thousand-Year Reich, Josef. All doors are open to you, all dreams within your grasp. Decide what it is you want, and you shall have it, my boy.”

Josef nodded. “I’ve got a lot of thinking to do. I’ll be in touch,” he said, hoping it sounded like a promise, instead of the threat he meant from the bottom of his heart.

“Very good,” Heusmann said, getting up from his chair with the uncanny grace Joe was starting to recognize. “Heil Hitler.”

“Heil Hitler,” Joe responded, heading to pick up his coat. He could probably pawn the thing, if he needed cash for whatever he decided to do next. The Reichsminister thought he was building heaven on earth, but Joe knew they were locked in hell together. Let’s see how much damage it would take for one well-pedigreed monster to prove it, since they’d so conveniently brought him to the soft underbelly of the German Reich.


End file.
